


Brumous

by mthrfkrgdhrwego (universalchampbalor)



Series: Logolepsy- an obsession with words [3]
Category: DC's Legends of Tomorrow (TV), The Flash (TV 2014)
Genre: Comfort, Gen, Limb loss, Wordcount: 100-500, fite me, i need to stop my tag nihilism before the ao3tag tumblr finds me, idk what to tag this, len is totally missing fingers, like what the fuck am i writing, what is anything that i do, what is this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-06
Updated: 2017-07-06
Packaged: 2018-11-28 09:42:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 487
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11415264
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/universalchampbalor/pseuds/mthrfkrgdhrwego
Summary: Brumous-(adj)Of grey skies and winter days; filled with heavy clouds or fog; relating to winter or cold, sunless weather.





	Brumous

**Author's Note:**

> I! LOVE! LEN! AND! I! LOVE! DEATH!

Len had always had a soft spot for winter.

When they were kids, Lisa adored winter. As soon as it snowed or dropped below forty degrees, she went _wild,_ cheering and laughing and _begging_ Len to go outside. He could vividly remember taking her out in the dead of night, once he was sure Lewis was passed out and going to stay that way.

Seeing her romp around in the snow, in her thin, ratty jacket and too-big snow boots, risking hypothermia and allowing the cold tinge her cheeks and nose pink, filled him with a sort of warmth that he didn’t think possible.

Things got worse as time went on, but he always found solace in the cold. It was similar to how Mick finds beauty and comfort in the licking of flames, in the rasp of burn scars over smooth skin. The way that ice burned, how it could kill but also preserve, that way that it slipped over his skin was like nothing he had ever thought possible.

Every time he went to juvie, to jail, to a foster home without Lisa, he would find the coldest thing he could and just hold it, letting the ice sting his palm and burn through his cells. It was one of the few things he could feel through his extensive collection of scars and dead tissue. Dry ice had always been a favorite of his, which almost always resulted in trips to the doctor and missing fingers. The gap between his pinky and middle finger and the shortened stub of his other pinky made sure he remembered his recklessness.

When he heard of the cold gun, he felt like a kid at Christmas.

Holding the gun in his hands felt better than any heist he’d ever pulled off, any prize he’d fought for. It felt right, like it was made for him. It fit in his hands like a puzzle piece slotting home for the first time in forever. He felt like a different man with the cold gun at his side, fitting snug into his holster.

The parka he wore was something that he owned when he was young. It had been resewed and hemmed and stuffed more times that he could count. The fur lining the hood was falling out in clumps. His gloves were hole riddled and falling apart, worn one too many times and then put on again. His boots were muddy and scuffed and fit his feet all wrong. His goggles hugged his face too tight and had scratched lenses that he almost couldn’t see out of. The thermal pants and thick sweater he wore were accoutrements that he had earned along the way.

Wearing that outfit, that costume, that _persona_ , holding the gun, letting it sat against his thigh, made him feel like a child throwing snowballs at his sister in the dead of night in the middle of January.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm Bimonlewis on Tumblr! Come bug me!


End file.
